Poppy Fields


Once,
when I was little,
I ran up the stone steps,
out the glass doors,
into the meadow,
stumbled up a hill,
and brushed aimlessly
through a maze of blazing
red poppies,
black seeds and middles winking,
saying hello to me, telling me
to dance within them.
So I followed their whispers,
I twirled and ran through it all,
and behind me the
petals fell.
They're delicate, you know.
But on I ran, leaving a trail
of childhood dreams
to the sky.

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